Joan Crawford said that -
"Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never quite tell." and I don't know him that well.
But he takes me, spoonful by spoonful into his arms, his hands,
and between his fingers
they knead me, slowly
into butter.
I hate to admit it, but I am softening.
I feel his nudge, and his touch, it doesn't take very much
just the pick on his thumb
and his wrist has begun
to strum me back into tune
But perhaps I've spoken too soon,
or maybe written, or sung
his lips
pushed on this
tongue-tied,
wide-eyed,
he oversteps into my wild side
and I freeze
and I clench
I turn silently still
Waiting for the moment
that he gets his fill
of me,
gone.
melted.
like butter.
